Laying there that night in my tent, on the banks of a wild stream far from home, I was trying to escape.
Trying to escape life, the world, and all the things the world throws at you.
I should have been home with my wife and children, but I wasn’t. My only companions that night were
the looming ridge top called Mosby Mountain and the cold waters of the stream that was passing by.
I went there often. I would intentionally haul my stuff far enough back up into the woods so I could see her.
The night was cold, at 18 degrees there’s not much need to zip the tent up. The night was still and quiet and the stars above Mosby filled the sky.
I was camped on my favorite stream above a shoal called Tumbling Shoals.
The land just below me, where the river ran, constricted and formed a narrow rocky gorge that funneled the water down over a shoal that dropped nearly four feet.
The sound of the water tumbling down over the shoal was hypnotizing and added something special to this location.
I knew the place well and somehow this place felt like home and brought me comfort.
In the bottom behind me was the location of the old recruiting camp for the confederates during the Civil War.
